


Echoes

by QuiteQuirky21



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Arthur Conan Doyle - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuiteQuirky21/pseuds/QuiteQuirky21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voice started in New Delhi. He'd been working a case, and was about to reveal himself to the papers. Then a familiar voice entered his head. A voice that he'd listened to for years, and had not heard for almost as long. But it was a voice that was ingrained in Sherlock's mind. The smooth reverence of his compliments to the harsh consonants that made up his diatribes.</p><p>---<br/>I take the idea from The Empty Hearse where Sherlock hears John's voice, and expand upon that concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bits and pieces of a lot of things inspired me to do this, and I'm glad I started. Writing this so far has been really fun, and I don't think I'm done. (Still a WIP, so please be patient with my lazy ass)

The voice started in New Delhi. He'd been working a case, and was about to reveal himself to the papers. Then a familiar voice entered his head. A voice that he'd listened to for years, and had not heard for almost as long. But it was a voice that was ingrained in Sherlock's mind. The smooth reverence of his compliments to the harsh consonants that made up his diatribes.

_Sherlock, you can't do this. You'll completely blow whatever cover you have left._

  
The words that had never left the man's mouth ran through Sherlock's mind, clear as a bell. His head whipped around, eyes searching for the nearest stout blond man with military service under his belt. There were none. There were women in silks and men in slacks, not one of them in a jumper. Not one of them with a history of military service. There were women on their way to the bazaar, men on their way to work. Farmers, businessmen, salesmen, beggars. None had ever belonged to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, or fought in the battlefield that was London. None, were John Watson.

  
His subconscious was acting as his John. His John, who kept him straight even when Sherlock had lied and "died" and left him for dead. Even after all that, John kept him right.  
"John, it's a small paper, and an easy case. My name will circle around enough for Mycroft to pick it up, but he already knows. Quit worrying." Sherlock talked to the disembodied voice while walking into an alleyway.

  
_Sherlock, whether you like it or not, you have an international reputation. Someone important will pick it up, and before you know you'll be the top story on BBC news._

  
As much as Sherlock wanted to disagree, he knew John was right. Mycroft didn't need any help finding him, and Sherlock was not ready to be found. Sherlock had been tearing down Moriarty's web for a year and a half, and the big players were getting smarter and more isolated. They were making less mistakes and spending more time plotting bigger attacks.

  
"Yes, fine," Sherlock huffed, acquiescing begrudgingly.

  
_Good. Now, how long has it been since you've eaten?_

 

***

  
"John, Mr. Holmes is here, you ready for him?" Mary was leaning around the door frame with a slight smile on her face.

  
A small weight dropped in John's stomach and his face went slack. Then he remembered Ethan Holmes, one of his clients. In today because of an ear infection. John blinked, but let his eyelids pull themselves down for a moment too long. Upon opening them he flashed Mary a smile.

  
"Yes, of course, bring him back."

***  
Sherlock woke with sweat on his brow and hay in his fists. Turns out that once the voice started the nightmares restarted. His chest heaving, Sherlock looked up at the moon. John’s tortured screams echoed through his mind, refusing to fade into silence. The images of blood and bruising, the look of pure malice on some lackey’s face as he tore John into a pulp. He blinked, willing the images back into the deepest and darkest crevices of his mind. Exhaling he tried to empty his lungs, needing fresh oxygen circling through his veins.

  
The nightmares had been more consistent the first month of their separation, but every now and then the gruesome scenes played through his mind. Horrid short films flickering by and leaving terror and misery behind.

  
Sherlock sat up with a groan. Malnutrition and exhaustion had finally gotten the better of him, so he had given into the necessity of sleep. Thanks to John he’d stolen some bread to eat, but that was all he needed to hold him.

  
He surveyed his surroundings, making sure nothing was different, nothing amiss. He had been sleeping behind a barn for the duration of the case. He slept on hay with his clothes neatly folded next to him. He would sleep inside the barn were it not for the fact that goats roamed freely inside of it, and they would happily chew through his work clothes. Unfortunately, he needed work clothes. The idiot who was running the case wouldn’t listen to a beggar, no matter how much sense he was making. Thus, Sherlock had to bring out his nice clothes, put the coat back on, and tell him what he was obviously missing. Once that was all sorted out he switched back into his basic clothing. He’d only brought along one suit, and needed to keep it nice enough that he looked respectable when wearing it.

  
Sherlock stood and ambled over to the water trough, swatting hay off his tattered once-was-white shirt. Technically the water was for the goats that belonged to whomever owned this barn, but he was sweaty and thirsty, and didn’t care. To most people it would have been very dangerous to drink anything but bottled water here, but Sherlock had long ago acclimatized his immune system to the foreign bacteria.

  
Splashing his face he tried to ignore the goat nipping at his trousers. They were a thin cotton crinkled mess, and all he had by way of clothing. When he heard the flimsy fabric tear he swatted backwards, attempted to get the goat to leave him alone. In response the goat bleated and tore at the hem.

  
“Off.” Sherlock pushed the goat’s head away. The goat just bleated even louder. In return a few other joined in. “Shut up!” Sherlock whisper-yelled at the goats. “I’ll be gone soon, just shut up,” he said as he walked back to his makeshift bed of hay. He had a small satchel which he’d stolen from a bazaar, and in that he kept whatever clothes he had and whatever currency he had of the place he was in. Currently the bag held his coat, a shirt, his jacket, nice trousers, and 100 rupees.

But the goats refused. There was now a small chorus of annoying creatures doing everything they could to get someone to notice the tall man trespassing.  
Slinging the satchel over his shoulder Sherlock paced away from the barn. The only risk now was walking by the house. Ducking his head, he paced past the home.

"बंद करो! तुम क्या कर रहे हो?" a man yelled. At the foreign language Sherlock broke into a sprint, sure that he could outrun the farmer. What he hadn't counted on was a shoe hitting him in the head. While in shock from the blow he didn't see the rock his bare foot ran into.

  
Hitting the ground he heard more shouting. "तुम मेरी संपत्ति पर क्या कर रहे थे?"

  
Sherlock hadn't learnt Hindi, he didn't think he'd need it. He tried using some of the words he picked up though. "मैं खलिहान में सो जाओ. मैं कोई चोरी या मार डालते हैं."

  
Recognizing that Hindi was far from his first language the man narrowed his eyes. Slowly the man raised his arm, pointing to the dirt road. "जाओ!"

  
Taking the man's kindness Sherlock scrambled to his feet. He gave a slight nod to thank him, and ran onto the road.

  
***

  
After walking along a road for a while, Sherlock had come upon a small town not to far off one of the exits. He was walking through the market, trying to blend in as much as a lanky, dirty, out of place one could. He was planning on walking through the night, and finding a place to convalesce once he got to Ludhiana.

  
_Your foot._

  
Sherlock gave a start at the sudden intrusion. He was limping. And bleeding. Damn.

  
"I'll wash it once I get to Ludhiana."

  
_No, it will be infected by then._

  
Knowing John was right, Sherlock looked around for a place that might have first aid materials. The gash was on the inside of his left foot, with dirt caked around the bloody wound. As he became more aware of it, it started hurting more.

  
After an unsuccessful trip through the market, Sherlock decided to try the residences. At least he didn’t need John to punch him for a wound this time.

There were small houses, most of them old but sturdy. He saw some children playing on the road up ahead, and decided that they were his key to getting into any of these houses. He walked down the dirt road towards the young girl. Seven, lower middle class, bread for breakfast. She was playing with her little brother, four, independent. . . a child. There wasn’t much to them, and Sherlock really didn’t know children. They were kicking a small, rickety ball between the two of them, obviously an old one, probably the closest thing to a toy they had.

  
They didn’t seem to notice him until Sherlock tapped the little girl on the shoulder. God, how dull these tiny humans must be.

  
“Do you speak english?” Sherlock said, craning his neck down to look her in the eyes. She nodded. “Are your mother or father home?” Her eyes wide, she nodded. Her little brother had come up behind her, and was now hiding behind her, looking up at Sherlock. That was when he realized he must be scaring them.

  
Running through his head he tried to think how to deal with children. What did people normally do? Lower their center of gravity, possibly to match kid’s poor control over their equilibrium. He got down one knee, though he was still many inches taller than the girl. What else? Use small words, speak slowly, smile. Oh, maybe they were a bit like old people.

  
He flashed a smile. “You see, I am a traveller. While on my way I hurt my foot,” he pointed to his foot, instead of showing them. He’d found that people didn’t tend to enjoy looking at flesh wounds in the manor he did. “Do you think you could help me?”

  
The little girl was looking at him, judging his character with extreme accuracy as children tend to. Her arm had wrapped behind her, to wrap her fingers around her brother’s wrist.

  
Just as Sherlock thought she was going to turn and run, her hand grasped the hand resting on Sherlock’s knee. She proceeded to lead both a bent over Sherlock and her brother back to the house.

  
They crossed the meager threshold and she called out to her mother.The house was small, worn, tired, and probably not clean, but it was home. That was what mattered.  
A woman rounded the corner and jumped, giving a small shriek as her hand flew to her mouth.

  
The little girl dropped Sherlock’s hand, allowing him straighten up, and strode over to her mother. The mother knelt (oh good, that is the correct response), acute panic displayed plainly on all of her features, but willing to hear her daughter out. They spoke in whispers, and Sherlock’s only clue to their conversation was the mother’s facial expressions. First panic, then confusion, then anger, then concerned understanding. Her eyes bore love, her features radiated protection, her body melted to soft resignation. She reprimanded her daughter in a language that was not Sherlock’s first, but he understood well enough how the conversation had gone.

  
“Come with me, we will help you,” she stepped forward cautiously, but did not seem afraid, and held out her hand. Sherlock took it with an unusual feeling of gratitude.

  
***

  
Straightening his tie John looked into the mirror. His face had fallen over the past few years, his eyes wrinkled when he laughed, and his forehead wrinkled when he frowned. His hair had aged to a balance between golden brown and gray. His thoughts drifted to Mary, his Mary. Sweet, and small, and kind, and witty. She was perfect. She was everything John needed, everything he didn’t deserve, and everything he could have hoped for. 

  
He’d been alone for almost a year, moved to a new flat, gotten a full time job at the surgery. Going through the motions, convincing himself he was living his life to the fullest, experiencing all that life had to offer. But really he had just put himself into a shell of a life and justified it by telling himself "this is what happy looks like".

  
Then she walked in and asked about the receptionist slot that was open. There was something in her eye, the way she held herself, how she talked. He took timid steps out of his shell and opened his eyes, and the world came pouring in. By the end of their impromptu interview she smiled, and for the first time in almost a year the smile he returned was not out of habit or social contract. He could feel the world coming back to him piece by piece, and he welcomed it.

  
He lifted a hand to his face, brushing down the stray hairs of his mustache. He’d never thought of himself as a mustache kind of man, but Mary liked it, so he’d keep it. He stared at his reflection, and gave himself a small smile before turning away and walking to the living room.

  
It was large, open, seemingly unused, and clean. It was home. His eyes swept around the room, and he bid farewell to the house that was only used by him, hoping that would not be the case after tonight.

  
Walking towards the door he palmed the extra key he’d had made a few days ago. Hand on the doorknob he paused.

  
“You’d like her, I know you would,” he whispered. His grip tightened on the doorknob and he stood, looking at his shoes. “I know you would.” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. This was it, he was saying g- no. He would never say goodbye. He was moving on, but he would never let him go, not completely. Emptying his lungs he opened his eyes and opened the door. He felt alright, he had come to terms with the absence of his best friend, and he was getting on with his life.


	2. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are leading different lives that are going in similar directions.

Sherlock woke with a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body. His foot stung, but it was clean, and his stomach was full. Opening his eyes he felt particularly groggy, possibly because he had not slept that well since he'd left London. There was a weight by his right foot which he couldn't place. 

"Mama, he is awake," called out the little girl, hopping off the bed and running out of the room. At the young voice, the day before came back to him. He’d been running on fumes; it was actually surprising he’d made it as far as he had. He tried to sit up, and groaned as he felt his muscles protest. As he gave up and put his head back on the incredibly comfortable pillow, a figure leaned against the door frame. 

“Good morning, mystery man.”

“Morning,” he said quietly, his voice gruff from not having been used. He was uncomfortable, he felt strangely indebted to this woman, and he had no idea as for what to do now. So he sat quietly.

“You are not a criminal; my daughter would not have talked to you. You are not from here, that’s obvious. So, who are you?”

Sherlock considered lying, protecting what little cloud of enigma he had left. But then he looked around at the shabby, small, dirty room. They might have flushing toilets, if they were lucky. Nothing Sherlock did now could ever make it to anyone of importance. “Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock, what kind of name is that?”

At this point he would have abandoned the conversation, grabbed something from the kitchen, and busied himself with something. But he did not know this place, its layout, or who was in it. He was oddly stuck, and the only thing he could do was answer her questions. “My name.”

“Very smart,” she said, walking towards the foot of the bed. “You’ve been asleep for thirteen hours; I need to change your bandages.” She flipped back the sheet and started unravelling the bandage. He sat quietly, waiting for a reason to do something.

He tried to remember everything he could from the night before. It had been strange. There was no father, he had died. The mother, Radha, made money for all three of them, but only the daughter had started school. The girl's name was Chaaya, and the boy's, Naahbi. 

These were details that he seldom acknowledged, let alone stored. In truth, whether he wished to admit it or not, he craved humanity. No matter how dull, how simple, there was a very basic human need to be around something other than your own thoughts. Of course, Sherlock would not admit this to himself; he had pushed it so far down that he didn’t even know there was something to be admitted. 

“Come eat,” Radha said, winding up the old bandage. 

“I don’t-”

Sherlock Holmes, you will eat.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, remembering that he had a guest. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath, sitting up slowly. Radha went to his side and offered a hand, and he ignored it. Once he stood solidly he looked at the room that he’d practically hibernated in. The walls were a faded yellow, and it was flaking off in places. There were two other beds on the floor. The mattress looked to be stuffed with blankets, but at least they were comfortable. Those must be the beds the children slept in; it would explain the worn toys. A lump of fabric that looked to be a bunny looked up at him from under a floppy ear. 

But if the children shared a room, and there beds were stuffed with blankets, the bed Sherlock had slept in must have been Radha’s. But it was small, not big enough for two people. If this was the room they all slept in, she and her husband must have needed a bigger bed. Ah, she’d sold it when he died. Or traded. Money really is tight then; how peculiar that they still extend such hospitality towards a stranger.

He looked down to Radha, who was already looking up at him. Nice clothes, that’s odd. A very nice necklace, how strange. If she had sold, or traded, the bed they shared, why not do the same with her clothing? In fact, the clothing was too nice for someone living in this sort of a house. Oh, of course! He got sick, he couldn’t work. She had to get a job, but medical bills were too high. They downsized, everything that wasn’t necessary was gotten rid of. But not her clothing? Why? Sentiment? Most likely. He must have bought it for her, or some other silly story as to why it had meaning. 

Looking at her more closely, there were lines on her face where water had not gotten rid of the caked-on dirt. No shower, then. He knew they had a faucet though; she’d gotten water from the tap as she cleaned his foot. 

That brought him back to his other question: if they were struggling so much, why help a stranger, especially to this extent? He thought about her sick husband, lying in bed. She must have taken care of him near the end if they couldn’t afford a hospital. She was his nurse, but in the end, he'd died. Maybe she just couldn’t bear the thought of someone being hurt and letting them get away again. If she had failed her husband, she would not fail anyone else.

He looked into her eyes, intrigued. “Breakfast.”

***

John woke to the smell of coffee and gentle humming. He looked up at the ceiling, and even though it was blank, it wasn’t empty anymore. He smiled and sat up. Last night had been fantastic, more than he could have hoped for. He tried to remember as much as he could, but most of it seemed to go by in a blur. 

He stood, acknowledging their room. It felt like there was a small balloon, right in the middle of his ribcage, and it was just lifting him up. His heart was all aflutter, as well. He was truly and properly besotted. 

He walked out to the kitchen where Mary sat, skimming the paper. 

“I knew the scent of caffeine would get you,” she teased, not looking up from the paper.

“Doctors' curse: we’re drawn to it like moths to a light.” He walked around the table to turn the kettle on. He turned around and leaned down to kiss Mary on the cheek. “And how are you?”

“I’m wonderful, thank you,” she said, beaming up at him. She folded the paper and placed it on the table, turning in her seat so she could talk to John as he shuffled around the kitchen. Putting the kettle on, toast in the toaster, taking jam out of the fridge. Mary rested her head on the back of her chair, watching him. “You know, I don’t think anybody knows but the two of us, unless you told someone.” John smirked at that, he had no one to tell, and she didn’t have many more. “Who do you think should hear first?”

“Oh, I think it’s up to you. I’m going to be staying in my flat, after all,” John said with a smile, sitting across from Mary with the freshly brewed tea in his hand.

“Yeah, don’t even mention the packing. That’s gonna be a nightmare. I don’t even have much stuff!” Even though she said it with a whine, John could see in her eyes that she was happy. Which, interestingly enough, he was as well.

“Yes, but that is for a later day.”

“Oh? Then what’s for today?” Mary asked daringly, nudging his leg under table.

“I don’t know, but you know I’m no good without my tea.” He took another sip, closing his eyes. He hadn’t shared a flat with someone in almost two years. Looking into his tea he thought of Mrs. Hudson, who'd leave tea for them almost every morning. But she'd never take the cups, of course, because she wasn't their housekeeper. What if Mary and he would need a housekeeper? He tended to keep the flat clean, but maybe if-

John shook his head. Those were thoughts for another time. He looked up to Mary. Breaking into a ridiculous smile he started giggling so hard he had to set his tea down.

“What?” Mary chuckled. “Is there something on my face, what’ve I done?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John said through his laughter. “I’m just happy!” 

At that Mary started laughing with him. “I am, too!” 

They laughed for another moment, and slowly the laughter became smiles. John reached across the table, taking her hand, their eyes locked. He stood, pulling her up with him, pulling her in close. 

“I love you,” He said, looking into her eyes so she could see he meant it. 

“I love you, too,” she whispered with a smirk. He kissed her slowly, like making a promise that could only be promised with closed lips. 

***  
After a very lovely retreat to their bedroom, the two moseyed outside for a proper breakfast. Well, lunch now. There was a little place John liked to eat at just around the corner, and he was hoping if he took her she'd be even more inclined to stay. They walked hand in hand, talking about patients, traffic, William and Kate, happy couple things. He opened the door for her, giving a cheeky curtsey as she passed.

"John! How are you?" the young hostess greeted him. She was probably mid to late twenties, blonde, fair skin, petite, gorgeous. A real catch, frankly. 

"Rosie, I'm really good. You?" John came almost every day he had off, so he'd made a few friends.

"Oh, same old same old," she said, faking a sigh. She eyed Mary while maintaining her polite grin. "I don't believe we've met. Are you Mrs. Watson? You never said you were married."

Mary played it off with a small laugh. John stepped up, put his hand on Mary’s back, “Yes, Rosie, I’d like you to meet Mary, my girlfriend." 

Recovering quickly, Rosie held out her hand. "Rosie Taylor, and no I'm not named after Rose Tyler."

"Mary Morstan, it's nice to meet you," Mary said with a smile and giving Rosie's hand a curt shake. 

All three stood there awkwardly for a moment, just long enough for Mary to take in the rustic feel, an updated bar, wrought iron furniture. Nice place.

“Yes, well, follow me,” Rosie said, perking up. She picked up two menus and bustled off to an empty table. She set down the menus, and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Have a good meal.”

They sat down and Mary cracked up. “Do I need to be worried about her?”

“Why? What about her?” 

“She absolutely fawning over you!” she laughed, and nodded her head towards the slumping hostess. “You’re so clueless.”

“Rosie? No, she’s always like that.” John opened his menu and pretended he didn't know what he was getting already.

"Maybe with you. You should have seen her face when I walked in, I could almost hear her hoping I was your sister."

“Oh you’re just paranoid. It’s not like she’s competition.” He continued to pretend to look at the menu.

“I’m sure.” Mary picked up a menu, then checked her mobile. “It’s still early enough to get breakfast, I think I’ll get some pancakes.”

At that John could put his menu down and act like he’d just decided, “Right, well I think our server will be here soon.” 

***

“A mango and some bread; that is all I can give you,” Radha said, holding a slightly overripe mango in her hand. Sherlock took it as he walked past her, getting ready to leave. 

Thank her, Sherlock. 

“Right, yes,” Sherlock said in annoyance. He turned around and looked Radha in the eye. “Thank you."

Just then the kids ran in. “Mama, Tarik wants us to come play with him.” The little girl brushed right past Sherlock, looking up at her mother. Naahbi watched from behind Sherlock’s leg.

“Are his parents home?” Radha asked, throwing a satchel over her shoulder.

“No, but we just want to go down the street,” Chaaya whined. 

“The answer is no, unless you want him watching you,” Radha pointed at Sherlock with a note of distaste. “But I will be late for work if I don’t leave soon.”

Chaaya then turned to Sherlock and took his trouser leg between two fingers, tugging. “Please. We’ll be good, I promise. We just wanted to go down to the creek.”

“Chaaya,” Radha started, but Sherlock ignored her.

All you have to do is watch them.

“No,” he whispered.

Sherlock, they’ve given you their home and taken care of you. This is the least you could do.

“No, the least I could do is nothing.” He was getting aggravated.

Sherlock!

“Fine!” he yelled at John, obviously too loudly for now all eyes were on him. “Yes, okay, I’ll watch them.” Chaaya jumped and hugged Sherlock’s leg, and it took much willpower not to shake her off. Radha looked at him in surprise, but seemed to accept it. 

“I have to go, or I’ll be late. Come on, all of you.” She paced out the door, and once she crossed the threshold, she turned around. The kids ran past Sherlock, but she put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Now, I’m letting you take care of my kids, and if I come to regret that decision, so will you. Understood?”

Sherlock looked for a moment, a slight smirk on his face, almost like he’d just accepted a challenge. “Understood.” And they both went off their separate ways, Radha to work Sherlock to his respective Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I've got no clue when I'll be updating, but I do plan on continuing. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update this whenever I can, but I write slowly, so it will probably be a little while. Thank you for reading!!!


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